


Choices

by crackinthecup



Series: Ends and Beginnings [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: Having recently joined Melkor in Utumno, Mairon finds himself entertaining some less than seemly thoughts about his new master.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Ends and Beginnings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112774
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	Choices

There had been no need to count the years in those days of seeming peace, when neither death nor blight had dimmed the splendour of Almaren. Even so, Mairon knew that a long time had passed since he had first heeded Melkor’s words: long, slow cycles of golden light and silver glow, of purloined information and furtive meetings.

To Utumno he had escaped in the wreck of Illuin and Ormal, casting off old allegiances and taking his rightful place at Melkor’s side. Initially he had laboured in the forges. It was work most to his liking, steady hammer-strokes, metal taking wondrous shape beneath his hands; polishing, perfecting, until the metal was smooth and lustrous, the design unlike any seen in Middle-earth.

But of late his duties had expanded. The destruction of Illuin and Ormal had set the earth rumbling and convulsing for miles and miles around. The peaks of the Ered Engrin had groaned, battlements had shuddered, tunnels had been blocked by falling stone and new ones were being delved to replace them.

The forges were in the bowels of the fortress where the earthquakes had been most keenly felt. As his lord’s lieutenant, Mairon had taken it upon himself to oversee the reconstructions, always with a firm hand, pushing for more, pushing for better, pushing for progress. It had been long and arduous labour, but it was finally nearing completion.

For the first time in what felt like months, Mairon left the warmth of the subterranean passageways, ascending to the higher levels of Utumno to report his progress to his master. Here, the corridors were loftier than the squat, rough-hewn passageways below. Narrow windows opened onto the outside world, letting in fitful gusts of winds, and Mairon shivered in the sudden chill.

He turned a corner onto the great thoroughfare leading to the throne room. Heads were respectfully inclined as he strode past, up a staircase of black marble and through a pair of exquisitely wrought iron doors. The hall stood empty except for his master, reclining in imposing magnificence on his throne; Melkor had been expecting him.

As soon as Mairon passed through the doors, he felt the air change. There was power here that pulsed like gouts of blood seeping from a wound, yoking the very mountains to its will. Mairon had been away from his master’s side for long enough that it struck him almost like a palpable force, crackling across his skin, setting longing stirring in his heart and other, less seemly things fluttering in his belly.

But roughly he pushed such things aside. He was Melkor’s lieutenant, yes, but he was still a subordinate; it seemed foolish, frivolous, to miss the company of his lord, and downright impudent to hope for intimacy from him.

He halted primly at the base of the dais, bending into a graceful bow. As he straightened, he cast his eyes to the cruel throne above, and Melkor flicked an indolent wrist to signal that he could speak.

“My lord,’’ Mairon began, clasping his hands behind his back and evenly meeting Melkor’s gaze. “The western caverns have been cleared of rubble and reinforced, and they are safe for use once more. The remainder of our work is cosmetic in nature and will be finalised shortly.”

Mairon swiftly moved on to speak of expenses, casualties, ways to prevent this from happening again. He maintained eye contact, steady, impassive; but his heart swelled with joy beneath Melkor’s undivided attention. It had been too long since their last conversation.

Before repair work had become his priority, they had often ascended to high chambers none but Melkor used, or walked in the wintry lands together. Melkor had plenty to teach, and Mairon plenty to impart: thoughts of his own that in Almaren had been constrained to silence, of taking what was and creating better.

There were other moments too, rare moments, moments Mairon fruitlessly tried not to dwell on: stray touches, thoughtless as they seemed at the time, Melkor’s hand clasped about his shoulder in praise, or brushing his knee after wine had flowed freely between them. They set something slick and brazen and heady roiling in Mairon’s stomach, something _dark_. Telling himself he had half dreamed the insidious touches did little to help. The feeling had stayed, and like a tenacious seedling, it had grown roots.

And now an unbidden blush dusted over his cheeks as Melkor arose in all his splendour, climbing down the steps of the dais until he stood facing him.

“You have proven yourself most apt in this, as in everything else,” Melkor said with a disarming smile. “You have greatly rewarded my trust.”

Mairon found himself smiling back, genuine happiness at Melkor’s praise slipping through his composure. “Thank you, my lord. I am ever pleased to serve.’’

Melkor reached out to him, gently cupping his cheek, and a thrill like lightning shot up his spine. “You command expertly, Mairon. You could lead armies, if you had a mind to.’’

“If that is your wish, my lord.’’

“Good answer,” Melkor smiled, a breath of fond laughter on his lips.

His fingers slipped into Mairon’s hair, nails lightly scratching at his scalp, making him shiver. Melkor drew closer until he was almost pressed flush against Mairon. Far, _far_ closer than propriety would dictate.

Mairon’s heart seemed to lodge itself somewhere in his throat. His breathing grew shallow, as though there wasn’t enough air in the whole world.

He didn’t dare to hope this was what he so desperately wanted it to be.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?” he asked, voice trembling far more than he would have liked.

Melkor chuckled and he felt the hot billow of his breath against his lips, setting such clamouring, potent _want_ tumbling through his stomach that he felt lightheaded.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Melkor replied softly. For all the silkiness of his voice, Mairon did not miss the flash in his eyes as though he were contemplating the breaking of continents; but all misgivings he might have had suddenly vanished as Melkor leaned in and kissed him.

Shock splintered and shivered through his core. He stood there unmoving for the space of several heartbeats as Melkor’s lips pressed deeply against his own and his hands gripped so firmly, so possessively, so _perfectly_ over his waist. And then he was kissing Melkor back, bold and breathless, and such yearning poured through him that his fingers trembled as they curled into Melkor’s robes and pulled him impossibly close.

All too soon Melkor pulled away, breaking their kiss, hands slipping from him. Their eyes met. Mairon stood there breathing hard, a deep shade of scarlet burning over his cheeks, his mind taking a second to catch up to what exactly had just happened.

He muttered a hurried goodbye, fleeing before he could quite catch a glimpse of the amused smirk on Melkor’s lips.

X X

Mairon retreated to the forges. He gave the orcs the necessary instructions to finalise the rebuilding of the tunnels, and he tried to lose himself in his own work, hammer and anvil and sizzling metal.

But he found himself distracted, mind drawn back to his kiss with Melkor like shards of metal to a magnet. The memory of his master pressed so intimately up against him set desire simmering in his stomach, but through that desire little niggling shards of doubt began to worm their way. He was not sure of Melkor’s intentions. He did not, _could_ not presume to hope that Melkor returned his feelings, thought of him as anything more than his lieutenant. Perhaps Melkor had somehow divined his feelings – and how could he not, he thought in hindsight, inwardly cringing at his own stupidity, all those furtive glances and unguarded smiles and lingering touches. Perhaps his master now thought to reward him with meaningless intimacies, like a dog on a tight leash occasionally given a scratch behind the ears.

The thought hurt, settling cold and nauseating in his stomach. But Melkor did not leave him stewing in his doubts for too long.

The messenger found him bowed over a dazzling sword. He was to make his way to Melkor’s chambers, and he chose to give no thought to the way his heart seemed to become misplaced at the summons, bruising itself against his ribcage.

“Tell our lord that I shall be there presently,’’ he bid the messenger, who scarpered out with a bow. Yet Mairon did not immediately move. He watched the firelight spring bright and blinding off the polished blade, and slowly, with pressure just shy of splitting the skin, he traced a fingertip over its keen edge.

X X

He had never been summoned to Melkor’s chambers before. The rap of his knuckles against the magnificent wooden door seemed entirely too loud, and Melkor seemed to take eons to come to the door, so long that Mairon was on the verge of reconsidering all the choices that had brought him to this moment.

“How can I be of use, my lord?’’ he asked when the door finally opened, keen to set himself to whatever task his master wanted him to do, needing something, anything to focus on and forget the nervous thud of his heart.

“I was hoping you would do me the honour of dining with me,” Melkor replied in a placid tone, stepping aside to let him enter.

Mairon let out a breath he did not even know he had been holding. Melkor’s gracious demeanour set him at ease. This wa0s more familiar footing between him and his master.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said with a tentative smile, and Melkor threw him a dazzling grin in return.

Dinner was perfectly pleasant. Conversation flowed freely between them, as did the wine, and the easy informality of it smoothed away Mairon’s worries. Melkor seemed unconcerned about their kiss and its implications for their relationship, professional or otherwise. He did not shun intimacy between them: his fingers brushed against Mairon’s own as he plucked his wine glass from his hand to refill it, his hair fell in a tickling sweep across Mairon’s cheek as he leaned in close to clear away his empty plate.

Mairon relaxed back in his chair once they had finished eating. The wine was buzzing pleasantly in his head; Melkor’s continual little touches had set warmth glowing in his belly. Their conversation had come to a comfortable lull, and Mairon’s gaze slipped from Melkor’s face to rest upon the rings on his own fingers. He started absently playing with one of them, watching the firelight moiling over its golden surface.

“Our last conversation ended rather abruptly,” Melkor said unprompted into the silence.

Mairon’s eyes flicked up to meet his master’s. He made a soft, questioning noise in response, sudden nervousness fluttering in his chest.

“Tell me,” Melkor continued, lips quirking up in a lascivious smile that took Mairon’s breath away; “do you think of me when you touch yourself?”

Mairon was sure that his heart had stopped beating. Sudden panic clove through his chest – Melkor couldn’t know, it was _impossible_ – and his jaw worked soundlessly as he tried to sort the jumble of his thoughts into something coherent.

“I…” he began weakly, looking around the room as if the right thing to say would leap out at him from the shadows. “It’s… It’s not like that…”

Melkor laughed a delighted laugh. He reached across the table and took Mairon by the hand, fingers threading through Mairon’s own.

“Do not worry, Mairon, there is no shame in such desires,” Melkor murmured to him, giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze. He arose from his chair and pulled Mairon to his feet, keeping their hands linked, smiling down at him with an inviting, roguish tilt to his lips. “Come, show me what thoughts you weave for yourself.”

Mairon forgot how to breathe. He let Melkor tug him through to the bedroom in stunned silence. He had wanted this for so long he could not quite believe that it was finally happening.

And then Melkor lit the fire in the hearth and the candles dotted about the room with a flick of the wrist, turning on his heel to face Mairon with a brilliant grin, beautiful and wanton and hungry. A giddy laugh bubbled on Mairon’s lips, and boldly, with such unutterable passion spilling through him, he tangled his fingers in Melkor’s hair and pulled him in for a kiss.

Melkor responded with brutal fervour, greedily deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against Mairon’s own so exquisitely that it set his senses reeling. Fingers gripped into him with brazen surety, sliding their maddening way down his spine, his hips, over the swell of his arse. Mairon moaned into their kiss, basking in Melkor’s attentions, riding the high of his master accepting his feelings so fully.

Eventually their lips parted. Melkor did not stop touching him, hands lingering at his waist with such easy assurance that it felt as though he had touched him like this a thousand times before. It felt _right_ , but the sheer possessiveness of Melkor’s touch gave him pause. He realised he had never truthfully considered the implications of deepening his relationship with Melkor to something beyond mere friendship and professionalism. Melkor was a cataclysm rendered in flesh, he would take and break and remake upon the most capricious of whims. He knew no softness in this or in anything else.

“Well?” Melkor asked when Mairon hesitated, arching an eyebrow with playful coyness. “I would be disappointed if there was nothing else you wanted to do.”

There was danger beneath Melkor’s soft words, a swell of power, an edge that promised to cut. And whether it had been decided in ages lost to memory, or in that very moment, Mairon resolved not to shy away from it. The spark of hunger in Melkor’s eyes was too alluring, the feel of him pressed up so intimately against Mairon’s own body was too intoxicating. Mairon’s misgivings transmuted into sudden need that throbbed through him with the potency of an eruption. He had already pledged eternal loyalty to this cruel, wondrous being. Physical intimacy seemed an easy, natural extension of that.

Mind made up, he loosened the fastenings upon Melkor’s outer robe, sweeping it off his shoulders to pool upon the floor. Melkor’s shirt followed suit. Mairon dragged his eyes over the hard planes of Melkor’s torso, smoothing a hand down his bared skin. Melkor’s flesh was cool compared to his own preternatural warmth, and as a spur of boldness guided his fingertips down the slant of a hipbone, Mairon thought of marble: perennial and alluring and sacrosanct.

Melkor allowed him to touch as he would. Yet his own hands were not idle; they wandered, grazing the pulse thundering just beneath Mairon’s jawline, stripping him of his tunic, and of his breeches and boots also. Fingers trailed over his abdomen, caressing the soft skin of his belly, dragging down just shy of his half-hard cock. Mairon tried to restrain the instinctive buck of his hips but couldn’t, and Melkor chuckled indulgently.

A blush crept over Mairon’s cheeks, his composure eroding all too quickly, but he did not let it deter him. Melkor was still wearing too many clothes. He reached for Melkor’s breeches, unlacing them, aiding him in drawing them down over his hips.

Mairon flicked his eyes downwards, spotting his master’s erection, and a warm glow spread through his chest to know that Melkor was enjoying himself. With a flare of confidence, he pressed his palms against Melkor’s chest, guiding him backwards until he lowered himself upon the bed.

Melkor was crowned in decadence, draped as he was over the silken sheets: luxurious, self-assured, smiling a smile that Mairon had seen once before, when messengers had come bearing news of devastation and victory; and at the sight, paralysing desire twisted in Mairon’s belly.

On hands and knees he crawled forward until he was straddling Melkor’s waist. Melkor’s hands trailed down his sides in a caress, nails lightly scraping across his hips. Mairon arched his back at the mild sting, and he leaned down, pressing his lips to the hollow between Melkor’s jaw and neck. Melkor’s fingers tangled in his hair, and he sighed softly as Mairon continued, pressing small, teasing kisses down his neck, down his chest, dipping ever lower until he paused at his hipbones.

Melkor smoothed a stray strand of hair behind his ear. Mairon glanced up, meeting Melkor’s gaze, letting the hunger he found there spur him into action. Tentatively he swiped his tongue over Melkor’s length, licking a hot stripe from base to tip. Melkor moaned, eyes flickering shut in pleasure, and Mairon felt drunk on the knowledge that he was responsible for Melkor’s faltering composure. He parted his lips, slipping the first couple of inches of Melkor’s cock into his mouth, curling his fingers round the base. Finding that a shallow motion was most comfortable, he flattened his tongue to the underside of his master’s length, sliding his lips almost clear of the tip then sinking back down again.

Melkor’s fingers were loose in his hair, and he allowed him to continue for a few minutes, content to simply watch. Spurred on by lewd curiosity, Mairon took him deeper still until Melkor’s tip nudged against the back of his throat. It proved an overly ambitious move: he gagged and made to pull away. And if he encountered resistance, if Melkor’s fingers over the back of his head momentarily tightened as though to keep him still, then he did not dwell on it. He took a moment to compose himself, to let his throat relax, and then would have bent down again.

Yet Melkor’s fingers definitely tightened in his hair this time, yanking him upwards until his thighs were once more splayed wide about his waist. The pain prickling over his scalp only served to seep down into his belly, making him squirm.

“As wondrous as that was,’’ Melkor smirked, stretching a hand to the bedside drawer to withdraw a vial of oil, “there is so much more that we can do.’’

Mairon watched as Melkor twisted the cork off and poured a liberal amount of oil over his fingers: the vial seemed unused, and he couldn’t help but wonder how long Melkor had been planning this. But he did not have time to ponder such matters. Fingers closed around his length, swollen now to aching arousal by the taste of his master lingering on his tongue. Melkor twisted his fingers in a firm, breathtaking rhythm, made smooth by the oil, smooth and far too deft for Mairon’s reeling senses.

Mairon’s eyes rolled back into his head, undone by the ecstasy boiling within him. His hips were moving of their own accord, rolling into Melkor’s hand. His master’s thumb glided over his leaking tip, he caught his master’s gaze fixed with such delicious intensity upon him, and he tossed his head back, a desperate moan tearing from his lips.

And then the fingers wrapped around his length loosened: sliding away, slicking a path between his legs.

“My lord?’’ he asked hoarsely, longing for Melkor’s hand to return to his cock as arousal dimmed within him. He drew a sharp breath at the unfamiliarity of fingertips sliding over his entrance, wriggling his hips, his thighs tensing about Melkor’s waist.

“Shh,’’ Melkor murmured to him, returning a placating hand to Mairon’s length, stroking more softly now, more slowly. “Stay still, little one.’’

Mairon sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying at it with his teeth, as Melkor continued to touch him. The fingers around his cock were once more stoking the ardour in his belly, and the teasing touches brushed over his entrance were not unpleasant. But discomfort pierced through his pleasure when Melkor nudged a finger inside of him. Mairon grunted, instinctively making to move away, but Melkor removed his hand from his cock and dug his fingers into his hip with unyielding force to keep him in place.

“You’re all right,” Melkor reassured him, voice low and soothing. But he did not withdraw his finger. Rather, he added a second, opening him further, twisting them inside of him. Mairon reached for Melkor’s free hand, drawing it away from his hip so he could clutch on to it as the sensation scratched over his nerves.

Melkor persisted, working his fingers into him at a measured pace, and slowly Mairon relaxed. He splayed himself wider until Melkor’s fingers were sheathed within him to the knuckle. And then Melkor was pressing against his inner walls, angling his fingers just so, and Mairon gasped with the brilliant pleasure that suddenly drenched him.

He instinctively rocked his hips back against Melkor’s fingers, and Melkor obliged him, slipping into a faster rhythm, making sure to hit that spot inside of him every time he plunged his fingers back in. Mairon’s thighs began to tremble, hands curling around fistfuls of the sheets on either side of his master’s head.

He whined when Melkor eased his fingers out of him. Melkor shushed him, throwing him a wicked smile as he reached for the oil once more. He drizzled a generous amount of oil over his own cock, then manoeuvered Mairon into position with a firm hand on his hip, and Mairon barely had a chance to catch his breath before Melkor started pressing into him.

It hurt. His ardour ebbed and he cried out, turning his head aside to stare dimly at the wall and breathe through the pain. Fingers were back at his cock, stroking him in a steady rhythm; he could feel Melkor’s other hand rubbing soothingly over his thigh.

Bit by bit, breath by laboured breath, his body adjusted to the stretch. Of his own accord, he dropped his hips lower, letting Melkor’s length slip a few more inches into him. Pleasure flared back into life in his belly as the head of Melkor’s cock nudged against his prostate.

“Look at me,” Melkor ordered and Mairon obeyed, all too aware of what he must look like: pupils blown wide with lust, cheeks tinged pink, mouth falling open as Melkor started moving inside of him.

Melkor smiled up at him, gluttonous and indulgent all at once, and Mairon fell apart. He tilted his hips back into his master’s thrusts, deepening the angle, and Melkor growled appreciatively.

Through hooded eyes Mairon maintained eye contact with Melkor; his master seeing him like this, raw and pliant and nearly delirious with pleasure, debased him in the most delectable of ways. He was aware of little more than the irresistible feel of Melkor’s cock stretching him wide as he pressed yet deeper up inside of him, fucking him just that little bit faster, harder. Melkor’s fingers twisted over his length in time with his thrusts, he sank to the hilt within him in one fierce roll of his hips, and Mairon came undone.

He closed his eyes as his climax shuddered through him. Breathy moans fell from his lips, his hips ground down against Melkor in frantic little rolls, and he simply melted into the glorious intensity of it.

Ever so slowly, Mairon floated down from his peak, giddy and panting and aglow. Melkor was looking up at him with a soft, wondrous light in his eyes that set his heart soaring. He winced as he lifted himself off Melkor, but his master was there, hands steadying his hips, gently shushing him. Melkor moved away to kneel up behind him, and Mairon made to lie down and ease his sore muscles.

But Melkor’s fingers were like steel when they hooked into his hips, forcing him to remain on hands and knees. Melkor aligned the head of his cock with his entrance, and he realised what his master intended, he realised that Melkor was still hard. He opened his mouth to ask him to wait. He had merely wished for a short respite; ignoring Melkor’s needs would be against the very fabric of his being.

But Melkor was already plunging inside of him, and all he could do was grit his teeth against the sharp pain of it. He let Melkor fuck him, more roughly now as he chased his own release. He told himself that it was his choice to remain silent, to allow Melkor his fair share of the pleasure. The scrape of Melkor’s cock over his raw nerves was not unendurable, and it paled in comparison to his elation at the low noises of delight slipping from Melkor’s lips, the knowledge that _he_ was having such a profound effect on his master.

Melkor buried himself to the hilt inside of him when he came. He remained still for the space of several heartbeats. His grip on Mairon’s hips softened, hands trailing over his arse in an admiring caress. He pulled out slowly, carefully, and Mairon felt seed drip warm and slick down his thighs. Melkor ran the pad of his thumb over his entrance, over the mess splattered there, and unbidden, Mairon retreated from the touch and turned around to sit atop the sheets. Discomfort pulsed through him, but it seemed to fade away to nothing as Melkor tenderly cupped his cheek. His touch felt pleasantly cool against Mairon’s flaming skin, and just for one unguarded moment he nuzzled into Melkor’s palm.

An odd sense of vulnerability stole over him. What they had just done seemed to register in all of its enormity for the first time.

He awkwardly cleared his throat.

“I… I should go, my lord. There is work to be done.”

Melkor gave him a fond smile, tracing the slant of his cheekbone with his thumb in a delicate touch as though he were made of the most fragile porcelain. “There is no matter demanding haste. Why don’t you stay a while? Your work will not depart while you get some rest.”

He let his fingers slip from Mairon’s face and settled himself amid the pillows, patting the mattress next to him invitingly. An easy grin spilled across Mairon’s face. With a lighter heart, he sank into the pillows beside his master, letting Melkor draw him close with an arm draped over his waist.


End file.
